


As long as we have blood and guts

by caughtinanocean



Category: Captain America
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Magic, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinanocean/pseuds/caughtinanocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve lives a quiet life apprenticing for an aging artist in the little country estate where he was sent upon the death of his mother, an assistant healer at court. But with trouble brewing in the realm, and the royal city — where Bucky lives — taken over by a dark and powerful force, Steve sets out on an adventure to save the kingdom, rescue a captive prince, and be reunited with his one, true love.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>But Steve knows the truth in his bones; if people are in danger, he has to try and help. If Bucky is in that city, Steve just can't sit there safe. It doesn't matter what the risk is, and it doesn't matter what his chances are. Steve whispers to the stars, "When you love someone -- when you love someone -- you never give up."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	As long as we have blood and guts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marvel Big Bang 2015. Some fabulous art over [ here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5193341). Title from "Trainwreck 1979" by Death From Above 1979.

In the pale gold mornings of Steve's childhood, he would awaken to the sound of his mother, a healer's assistant in the royal court, preparing for the day. She would kiss his forehead, and bid him go back to sleep, for the sun was only just rising, and he needed the rest, because -- there was always a reason, some illness coming or some illness recently gone.

But Steve never listened. He'd close his eyes and feign sleep until his mother's footsteps were a distant echo in a long hallway, and then he would spring out of bed, out of his sleep clothes, out of their small-but-comfortable chambers. Hastily dressed, pale yellow hair a mess he'd only made a perfunctory attempt at combining, Steve would creep through the castle, to one of the gardens or to a library or to some secret staircase: wherever he and Bucky had arranged to meet that day.

Bucky's father was some lord-knight or other, and the demands placed on Bucky's time by training and schooling and diplomatic functions were great. And yet, he never missed a morning with Steve, or an evening, or an afternoon. Whatever scrap of time he could steal, he would be there, and he and Steve would tear through the halls -- playful children, heedless of Steve's weak lungs or the disapproving glances of courtiers and servants alike.

As they grew older, running around and playing heroes turned into sitting and talking amid the roses, bathed in morning light and morning dew, or reading each other pages from some precious, beautiful tome or another. Bucky was a voracious reader, eager to share the bounty of his education with Steve, showing him favorite books and favorite passages, rambling, bright-eyed about references and themes and scientific innovations. Bucky taught Steve, who until the dawn of their friendship, knew only what his mother or her friends could impart in the snatches of time they managed to spare amid working from each dawn to each dusk, to be the same. 

Those times when illness kept Steve from Bucky's side, Bucky would find his way to Steve's, bringing games and books and endless conversation, even when Steve was too far in the grip of fever to hear him. He'd stay with Steve when duty called his mother away, would twist the wrists of courtiers to get Sarah time away from her work when Steve's condition was particularly dire. Extra supplies, special meals, paper and pencils, precious little trinkets to make Steve smile, weak and sweat-drenched, from his sickbed -- whatever was needed, Bucky would get. 

When one of the court's artists plucked Steve up to be an apprentice, that was probably Bucky's doing, too -- although he forever denied it. "Talent like yours was always gonna get noticed, pal," Bucky would say with a smile, beautiful -- the first thing Steve ever wanted to commit to paper.

The winter of Steve's thirteenth year, his mother took ill. She faded quickly, despite the work of healers high-up enough in the palace ranks that they would never have been caught treating anyone without a title if Bucky hadn't pulled strings. She was gone before the ground had time to thaw that spring.

Steve, now an orphan, was sent quickly away. The destination: one of the country palaces, far away from the city, in a place so mild that it never froze over. There, an apprenticeship with a respected artist awaited him -- more formal schooling, should he have the patience for it. All this was relayed to him by a harried lady-in-waiting whose job description certainly did not include the wrangling of orphans with naught more than a sack of coins to their names. 

The last time Steve saw Bucky, they were bathed in golden sunrise. The dew sparkled on the petals of the queen's climbing roses, but Steve could not tear his eyes from Bucky's face -- eyes brighter than the reflecting pools where they'd once disturbed the lilies by skipping stones, mouth more tender than any rose, the whole of it so beautiful that nothing in any of the gardens could compete. They never had.

Bucky was already growing tall, then -- well on his way to strapping -- and he ducked his head to hide that face in Steve's hair. Steve breathed in the smell of him, memorizing. Bucky breathed back a half-sob, his back heaving. "Paint me lots of pictures, Steve. I bet you'll be a master when I see you next, and they'll be priceless.."

"'They'll all be for you," Steve said. "Every one. I'll make you sit still for a portrait, soon as I see you again."

"I'll hold you to that, pal."

"It's just some paintings, Buck," Steve said, the time and space that would soon loom between them a weight upon his chest, so heavy that he could not even cry.

"No," Bucky said, a desperation in his voice that Steve could not name, "seeing me again. You will. You have to."

"Course I will, Buck," Steve said. "When you love someone, nothing keeps you from their side. There's nothing that will ever keep me."

For all their golden mornings, evenings, afternoons -- all their talks and all their stolen moments -- there were words that neither Steve nor Bucky ever said. They never seemed necessary. But with separation stretching out before them like a vast and empty field, that simple word took on such an urgency that it had passed Steve's lips before he had a chance to consider its weight.

Bucky stepped back. His eyes were wide; his cheeks, flushed. His voice, soft awe. "I love you, too."

Steve had to stand on tiptoe to press a ginger kiss to the corner of his mouth -- their first, and Steve's first ever -- less kiss than it was promise, an oath they didn't have to swear aloud. "Put flowers on Ma's grave for me?" Steve asked, breaking the reverent silence: she was important, too.

"Nobody will ever see her stone beneath them," Bucky said. He took Steve's hand, and squeezed. 

"Hey Buck," Steve said, "maybe you'll grow into those ears of yours, before I see you next." 

Bucky laughed, bell-bright and spring-clear, reason enough for Steve to say anything, anything at all. "Good luck with your front teeth, pal."

The carriage that would bear Steve so, so far away was waiting, and so he took those first, halting steps away from Bucky, away from all he'd ever known or loved. He left Bucky there, standing in the golden light of sunrise. They did not say goodbye.

Mornings have not been the same ever since.

\--

Steve wakes to the crowing of the rooster. It is still near dark, but his maestro starts painting at first light. Before that happens, there is pigment to grind, and canvas to stretch. There are easels to set out in several places, chosen weeks or sometimes months before. Maestro is obsessed with the changing of the light. He paints one vista, and sets Steve to painting another. 

Nature has never been Steve's favorite subject (his favorite subject is the one he hasn't seen in years) -- he prefers to draw the bustle of a city street, or the intricacies of a human hand. He likes faces. He likes the way they shift and flicker between expressions, different from one second to the next — Maestro’s influence is not unfelt, after all these years in his tutelage. 

Still, Steve prefers people to landscapes — unfortunate, because at this, the country estate that he’s had to call home for the last seven years, landscapes are far more plentiful than people. The one place that can even pretend at bustle is the kitchen during meal prep. Steve spent a month’s worth of smiles on charming the head cook, and he is always welcome to tuck himself into a corner with a sketchbook, so long as Cook can feed him as he draws. She’s not succeeded in putting an ounce of meat on his bones yet, but she keeps hoping, and Steve will let her keep trying. 

That’s where he spends most of his free time. It’s a quiet life, and one Steve knows he should be grateful for; but still, beyond the missing of Bucky, which is a sort of dull ache now, the way soldiers talk about old war wounds and lost limbs, he feels a profound sort of restlessness — an ache for something more. 

Steve mixes the paints, the way Maestro taught him. He stretches the canvas, and sets out the easels. He picks up breakfast from cook, for Maestro and himself — hearty pastries, filled with potato, one each — and they eat as they walk. He paints the rolling country hills, first by the pink light of dawn, and then in the gold of the afternoon. 

He takes a sketchbook to the kitchen — charcoals, today — and sits and draws, and draws until dinner, pausing only for bites of every rich thing Cook has someone set on his plate. 

Something more — Steve wants something more. 

—

Steve stares at the canvas. Bucky’s jaw-line would be more pronounced now, with the same high-cheekbones he always had, and the dimple in his chin. The precise color of Bucky’s eyes, Steve has never forgotten, and the nose is easy enough — but what would be the color of his skin? Are his days given to diplomacy, and hours spent in the library, learning? Or does he practice and ride, stripping armor away when sweat drips down his neck, exposing more skin to the sun? That problem is solved easily enough, by painting him as Steve most often knew him, in the rose-gold of dawn, but Is his hair long the way courtiers wear it, or does he keep it short enough to hide beneath a warrior’s helm? It always waved, when it was allowed to grow at all. Mostly, he'd worn it just past his ears. Steve hazards a guess.

Maestro looks up from the commission he's been putting the finishing touches on -- an aging noble who wishes only to be painted as he was two decades prior -- and walks, slow and halting, old joints protesting the moist air of early spring, to look at Steve's work. "A fine likeness!" he says, with a sudden smile.

As far as Steve knows, Maestro and Bucky have never crossed paths, even though Maestro still travels to the royal city to paint portraits of various nobles as often as his health will allow but Steve supposed he means the compliment in a more abstract sense. 

"The eyes are just right," Maestro continues. "Warm and intelligent, but with a hint of playful mischief. This is a fine work, my young friend."

Yes, Maestro must be praising Steve for capturing a spirit. The love in every brushstroke must show. "Thank you, sir," Steve says. He feels a bit warm -- all these years, and he's still not used to having a bona fide master take stock in his work. 

"The next commission a subject doesn't come here to sit for is yours," Maestro says.

Steve sucks in air. By letting Steve do a commission, Maestro will be risking his name on Steve's skill. This honor means the world, and not only because of his art. 

If Steve starts doing Maestro's commissions, his own will soon follow. If Steve starts getting commissions, he'll have to travel -- travel means the royal city, and the royal city means seeing Bucky again.

\--

Steve is lost in his head when he sits down to sketch in the kitchen -- pencils. He hardly draws anything at all. 

He might have been lost to the world entirely until nightfall, if not for the power of the one thing that rules the kitchen more than Cook and cooking combined: gossip. 

The bearer of the evening's news creeps into the kitchen, her feet bare and silent. Sharon’s been in the countryside for half a year now, and she is a quiet fourteen, slow to open up to anyone in the little estate. Like Steve, Sharon came here after the death of her parents, though technically she remains under the care of a young aunt — a figure of some scandal, who kept the girl with her for a while before bringing Sharon to a safe place and returning to a life of adventure. 

The aunt writes often — long missives filled with instructions for something Sharon refers to as training, and does only in the privacy of her rooms, but also news of the outside world, stories of her travels, and numerous inquests about her niece’s wellbeing. The letters are the one thing Steve has ever seen Sharon get animated about — she sits in the kitchen, bright-eyed, and shares excerpts. Steve likes the aunt’s bright wit, and the uncontained spirit that leaps from the pages, though Steve is not sure how she could leave a niece who so adores her somewhere alone.

It’s no surprise that Sharon comes clutching an envelope — that happens often. But the look on Sharon’s face — a mix of excitement and trepidation — is something new. She’s not the kind to wear emotion on her sleeve. 

“What does the Lady Margaret write about, lass?” Cook asks, her voice kind. 

“There’s trouble.” Sharon bites down on the words. 

Steve can see Cook holding back a comment about Lady Margaret’s way of life, and the way it’s sure to lead to trouble of all sorts. Cook is protective of Sharon, even if she disapproves of the aunt. “Is she alright?”

Sharon shakes her head. “No, it’s not my aunt in trouble. It’s the royal city.” 

“The royal city?” Steve cuts in: Bucky. 

Sharon unfolds the letter. She reads, her voice taking on a refined tone that must be her aunt’s, “‘My dear Sharon, I have set sail to see you, though I am afraid it is under dire circumstances. The royal city has been taken by an unknown force — sorcery is suspected. The crown prince is taken, and the king and queen, who were seeing to other parts of their lands, have been warned that a slow death shall be his should they attempt a return. Knights from all across the kingdom have been coming to fight for their prince and free the city. As far as my networks can tell me, none have reached its gates. All fall or disappear first. I come to offer my aid, along with a powerful friend. But first, I come to see you, my dearest family.’” 

She stops, takes a breath. “My aunt is coming, and the royal city is taken.”

—

The whole estate is plunged into a frenzy of wild speculation and hushed conversation by Sharon’s letter. Steve does not sleep that night, and he is far from alone. Everyone is trying to send word through some channel or other, and anyone with the slightest bit of magic is trying for a vision. 

Steve cannot stop thinking about the knights, and Bucky, too, of course -- but the knights. They're out there, giving and risking their lives, and Steve is here, so safe and so far.

He goes out into the night to look at the stars, neglecting to put on anything heavier than his tunic. He can hear his mother and Bucky scolding him as one. The sky is crystal-clear and the stars are bright, the way they always are out here. The lights of the city always washed them out.

He's cold, but it's irrelevant in the face of the beautiful vista spread before him, open field and open sky. Suddenly, Steve knows what he has to do. If all those knights can risk their lives to fight for the city, a city that might not even house the people that they love: so can he.

And oh, Steve knows what age those knights started their training at, he has seen them knee-high to their instructors. Bucky tried to teach him how to fight, when they were young, tried to pass that knowledge on the way he passed his books and his philosophy. Steve never learned much. He couldn't wield a heavy sword, couldn't get a blow in unless it was dirty. Bucky taught him to survive, but that won't do much in the grander scheme of things, won't do him any good in a fight against whatever is making full-fledged knights disappear. 

But Steve knows the truth in his bones; if people are in danger, he has to try and help. If Bucky is in that city, Steve just can't sit there safe. It doesn't matter what the risk is, and it doesn't matter what his chances are. Steve whispers to the stars, "When you love someone -- when you love someone -- you never give up.".

—

Steve packs when he comes back to his room -- just one small knapsack -- a sketchbook, some clothes, and all the money he's got in the world; the shortsword Bucky got him when they were twelve, in its scabbard where it's always stayed. 

He resolves to sleep on his decision, but Steve knows in his heart that he's set in his path.

\--

Steve wakes up the next morning, before first light, with the crowing of the rooster. He does not go to grind the pigment. Instead, he pens a letter. He thanks Maestro for everything, but does not promise to return. It's not a promise he'll be able to keep.

With some trepidation, Steve walks down the hall towards the kitchen. He does not think that Cook will stop him, and he'd like to tell her and the place in this estate that's felt the most like home goodbye.

Cook takes one look at the knapsack and draws her mouth into a tight line. "If I were your mother, I'd knock this idea out of your head with a rolling pin. Why, if my Peter ever did a thing like that…"

"She's rolling in her grave right now," Steve agrees. He'll be able to visit -- see if Bucky was telling the truth about the flowers. That sounds nice.

"At least you know," she says. She presses a bun into his hands. "You eat that. I'll pack you some supplies."

Steve bites into the hot pastry. It's delicious -- flaky, well-seasoned, and steaming. It tastes of the sort of care and consideration he has only had in doses since his mother died. Steve leans against the counter and thinks about the sound of her voice. It's been a long time now, and Steve worries about forgetting it, sometimes. 

Cook comes back with a bundle of food a few minutes later. "You take care of yourself out there. I don't know what you've gotten into your head, and I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. But be careful. It's a long journey. There will be peril on the road, and peril at the destination. I put a little something extra in here for you -- to protect you. Don't you lose it. I was saving it for Peter, but I suppose I’ll have the time to make another before he’s getting himself into half your kind of trouble."

Steve thanks Cook, and he tells her goodbye, and then he walks out into the warm dawn light. It's been years since morning last held so much promise. 

\--

Steve's health has been good, these past few years, relatively speaking. The warm air and the small population have been kind to him; his winter sicknesses have all been mild and brief. Stretching canvases and carrying easels and eating well has made him stronger.

That being said, his good is just about anybody else's bad. Two hours into his walk, -- east, following the sun down the lone road towards actual civilization -- Steve is already tired. He pauses underneath a tree and drinks from his skein. All the things that hadn't occurred to him the night before have been dawning as the day gets brighter. 

This journey took months the first time around, and he was in a carriage, then. He has no idea how long it's even going to take on foot. He has supplies, for now, and means to replenish them -- but not nearly enough. Stretches of this trip will hardly pass through civilization at all. He has no skill in hunting or in foraging for anything besides the plants and stones one uses to make paints. He does not know how to tell good water from bad. 

Steve pulls the charm Cook gave him from his pack. It is a smooth stone, marked with concentric circles and a star. It fits into the palm of his hand, and Steve wonders if it really can protect him from all the unknowns the road has to offer. 

\--

He resolves to keep the stone close. An extra shred of fortune cannot hurt. There is a hidden pocket sewn into his tunic.

\-- 

The first day's walk passes by without incident; the first night, Steve shivers in the night chill and stares up at the stars. He should have brought something warmer to sleep in -- the nights are cold still, this time of year. But the sky is beautiful. 

Steve wonders if Bucky has ever seen the stars be this bright, if he has ever traveled far enough from the city to see them like this. Steve resolves to ask, when they are together again. Whatever the answer, he thinks they ought to go and see the stars together. Even this boundless, velvet sky would be more beautiful reflected in Bucky's eyes.

\--

Steve wakes up to a pair of eyes several inches from his face.

"Oh good, Katie-Kate," the stranger says, backing blessedly out of Steve’s space. "He's not dead."

“No,” Steve says, blinking at the bright, late-morning light. He can’t remember the last time he slept until the sun was this high in the sky. “I’m not.”

“I told you he was fine, Clint,” the other stranger — ‘Katie-Kate’, Steve supposes — says. “Now pay up.”

Clint pulls a parcel from his pocket, and passes it to his friend with a sigh. She unwraps it, revealing a piece of stale traveler’s bread, which she wolfs down in two bites flat. “I really need to stop betting you my breakfast, Kate,” he says. 

“Not my fault you have terrible judgement,” she mumbles, mouth full. “Don’t worry, I saved some of mine for Lucky.” 

Steve studies the pair of them. They both look lean, like they’ve been on the road a long time, and they’re both armed — each carries a bow and a quiver of arrows. It’s strange then, that they’ve been going hungry. Steve’s always been a curious sort of guy, and he’s gotta know what two people on the road are doing with bows and arrows, if it isn’t hunting for their food. 

He sits up, and opens his knapsack. 

Clint and Kate stop their argument to watch him. He pulls out two of Cook’s wrapped buns, and passes them over before taking one for himself. They stare at the food in muted awe. 

“You. Are. The best person ever,” Clint says. The end of the sentence is muffled, because he’s already shoving the bun into his mouth. 

Kate is more hesitant. She hefts the pastry in her hand. “What’s in this? Is it poison? Who are you? Why are you sharing this?”

Steve responds by taking a bite of his own breakfast. 

Kate watches him, eyes narrowed, before giving in and starting to eat. She groans. “This is so good. I still want to know who the hell you are, and what you’re doing out here.”

“You first,” Steve says, between bites. He really will miss Cook’s food. 

Kate glares. 

“Oh, whatever, Katie-Kate. He gave us food. We can trust him.” Clint says. His bun is already gone, save for a portion that he wraps back up and tucks away instead of eating. “I’m Clint Barton, and this is Kate Bishop. We’ve been following a gang of robbers to their hideout, along with my dog, Lucky. They travel along the path to the royal city and jump travelers, and they’re huge jerks.” 

“Clinton!” Kate says. “What if he’s one of them? You can’t go around telling everyone our business.”

“He doesn’t have an accent, Kate! And he gave us food!”

“You’re worse than a stray dog,” Kate complains. She turns to Steve. “You know who we are, now talk.” 

“Steve Rogers. I’m on my way to the Royal City.” 

“Woah buddy,” Clint says, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the City’s not the place to be these days.”

“I’ve heard,” Steve says. “It’s why I’m going.”

Kate takes another bite out of her bun. “I thought we were bad. What do you want with the City?”

“Brave knights are laying down their lives. Who am I to do any less?” Steve watches the wind blow through the grass. It really is a beautiful morning. 

Clint turns to Kate, horrified. “He’s making us look sensible, Kate. Make him stop making us look sensible.” 

“I know a lost cause when I see one. You know you’re going to die, right?” Kate says. “Whatever took the city — there’s no way you can take it. Unless you have magic powers we don’t know about. Do you have magic powers we don’t know about?”

Steve shrugs. “Some things are worth dying for.” 

“That’s a no on magic powers from the dead man, then,” Clint says. 

Kate finishes off her bun. “We should give you something in return. Clint, what can we give him?”

“Hm, well, as much as I would hate to help with a suicide mission, we could slightly increase his chances of at least making it as far as the City alive.”

“That’s a good point,” Kate says. “Do you have parchment or something?”

Steve pulls out his sketchbook. “This good enough?”

“You’re pretty awesome,” Clint says. “It’s really a shame you’re going to die.”

“This is really nice,” Kate says, running her fingers over the creamy paper of Steve’s book. “Can you draw a map if I describe it?”

“I can do my best.” 

Kate, with input from Clint, describes a safe route to the Royal City, with paths through to woods to avoid the passes the robber gang targets. 

“There,” says Clint, when it is finished. “Now, when someone kills you, at least it won’t be them.”

“Thanks,” says Steve. He’d thought about the danger of the City, but he hadn’t thought about the danger of the road, of dying before he ever made it close enough to make a difference. “Thanks very much.”

“No, thank you. I hope we see you again someday,” Kate says. “I mean, I’m not counting on it, but.” 

“Yeah,” Clint echoes. “I hope we see you again. We’re not going to, but hoping never hurt anyone too much.”

Steve laughs, and bids them both goodbye. He sets off on the road they’ve marked for him. 

\-- 

There is a beautiful tree on the forest path, at least two centuries old, with branches reaching up into the sky. It beckons Steve to rest in its shade, and he cannot refuse. 

He leans his back against the trunk, pulls out some food, and then his sketchbook. He bound the thing himself -- the wealth of paper a luxury afforded to him only because of his Maestro's stature. Steve wonders if he'll ever touch a sketchbook again, after this one is used, and feels a twinge of guilt. Maestro was good to him, and Steve ran off, bullheaded, into some stupid adventure. 

He chases the thought from his mind, and then sketches the tree -- graphite. Going was the right thing to do -- if it weren't, he would have stayed. 

He's done with the tree and onto some tiny red wildflowers when someone startles him out of his reverie.

"How unusual," a man says. His accent hints at far away places. "The spirit of this tree called to you. Tree spirits are picky, especially old ones. And this one is old."

"Picky in what way?" Steve asks. The man is a stranger, and perhaps he should be wary, but something puts Steve at ease.

The stranger chuckles. Steve takes a good look at him. He's older, silver in what is left of his hair, and he isn't very tall, but he radiates something powerful and calm, a bit like the tree. "Well, you either have to have magic, or be very, very pure of heart. Do you have magic?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not even a touch."

"No," the stranger says, "I did not think so."

There's an awkward pause. Steve does not know how to reply. 

"So what brings a good man to a lonely road?" the stranger says, once he's taken his time thinking. 

Steve curls his mouth into a sad impression of a smile. "I'm going to go and fight for the Royal City."

"Oh?" the stranger says. "So eager to win your honor, to gain the fame and fortune that will surely come to whomever can free the prince and take back the land?"

"No," Steve says. His temper flares -- this man presumes to know what Steve wants, despite knowing nothing about him. "Knights from all over the land are risking their lives. Why should I stay safe while they sacrifice?"

The stranger smiles. "But those knights are trained warriors. You are not trained, and you are not a big man. What chance do you have at surviving this battle, if stronger men than you are out there dying?"

Steve shrugs. "If I die for the City, I'll die fighting to protect the person I love."

"And what would your love think, of you going out there and dying?"

"He'd think I was an idiot," Steve says. "If he were here right now, he'd probably cuff me upside the head."

The stranger laughs. "Sounds like the kind of person worth fighting for."

Steve thinks of Bucky's kind smile, and his open-sky eyes, of his endless humor and patience and warmth. "Oh, he is."

The stranger reaches out a hand. "Young man I have a proposal for you. I can help you fight for the city without going to certain death -- for a price. But first, tell me your name."

\--

Steve walks side by side with the stranger, whose name he now knows is Erskine. "Why can't your friend find a page, I don't understand?"

"Patience, my young friend," Erskine says. "Your question will soon have its answer."

"So I serve under your friend, who cannot find a page, for the length of the journey to the Royal City, where you and your friend are also going?"

"Yes."

"And in return your friend will train me."

"Yes."

"And in return you'll..."

"Perform risky and unprecedented experimental magic which will make you stronger than any man who yet walks this earth."

Steve thinks of his body, dead in the woods where he will probably end up, following this man, and wonders if anyone will ever find it. "And why not try this magic on your friend, who is already a skilled warrior?"

"Precisely because my friend is so skilled, young Steven," Erskine says. "One does not risk a sword-hand like that on a spell so untested."

"Where are we meeting your friend?" Steve asks. They have been walking deeper and deeper into the woods, and the forest is getting thicker. Maybe this man is one of the bandits Clint and Kate warned him about, maybe he is walking to his death -- 

All of Steve's wondering stops short when they come to a little campsite in a clearing. There, on a fallen log, dressed in a simple leather armor, chestnut hair glorious and loose, sits the most beautiful woman Steve has ever seen. 

"This, Steven, is my friend," Erskine says. "Steve, Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret, Steve. Peggy, I've found you a page."

\--

“Margaret,” Steve says. 

“Yes,” she says, squaring her jaw like someone ready to step into a familiar fight, “will that be a problem?”

Erskine watches him, eyes piercing. 

“Sharon’s Margaret?” Steve says. 

“You’re familiar with my niece?” says Peggy. 

Just like that, his awe at her evaporates. “How could you leave her alone like that? Sharon worships you. You’re all the family she has.” 

“Excuse me?” Peggy says. “You know nothing about our family, and about the choices I made to protect that family.”

“I know Sharon,” Steve says. “I know how hard being away from you was for her, and I know you chose a life of adventure over taking care of her.”

Peggy’s hand curls into a tight fist around the hilt of the sword she was polishing. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No, but you owe her.” 

“How dare you?” Peggy says. “How dare you assume what Sharon knows, and how dare you keep presuming to know a thing about me? Abraham, he’s no better than any of the others!” 

“Now, now, Margaret,” Erskine says. “I think we should see this conversation through. You and Steven are more alike than you might think.

”I’m nothing like her!” Steve protests. 

In almost the same instant, Peggy says, “We are nothing alike!” 

Steve looks at the ground, and Peggy looks at her gauntlets. “Perhaps I was a bit harsh with you,” she says. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles. Perhaps he was a bit harsh, too — not that he’s ever been good at admitting when he’s wrong.

Peggy’s mouth quirks. She almost smiles. “Sharon wanted me to keep being a knight. I stopped, to stay with her, and she asked me not to. I still don’t owe you a word of this, but if you’re going to be my page, you ought to know.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, “for telling me.”

“It’s good, that you care about her,” Peggy says. “I see you have a sword. That’s also good. It means we can get started right away.”

\--

Steve wakes up with every muscle in his body sore. If this is what was meant by training, no wonder Sharon kept out of everyone's way. It's a wonder she was able to walk out and be amongst the public at all.

Peggy sits, poking the fire, already long-awake, by the looks of her. "I don't suppose you know how to cook," she asks. 

"The cook at the estate put me to work chopping vegetables a time or two. Then she dubbed me a lost cause and banned me from the activity," Steve says. He tries to sit up, and cannot stuff down the groan.

Peggy laughs. "We have a long day's journey ahead of us."

Steve groans again. 

"Have you ever been on horseback before? You'll be riding behind me, since we only have the two for now, but when your muscles aren't used to it..."

Steve has been on horseback exactly twice in his life -- once, with Bucky, when they spent an afternoon at the stables, and then again at the estate. The stable-master had pronounced that he frightened the horses, and should not be allowed near them again, though the sentiment may have been based on his personal dislike of Steve. But all the same, Steve had stayed away.

Erskine returns from the woods. "Margaret, stop torturing the boy." He produces a small, copper pot, sized for travel, and pours some herbs inside, and then some water. He sticks it into the flame for a moment, and the contents flash green. Then, he pours the mixture -- the potion -- into a vial. "Drink this. It will ease your aches and pains."

Steve accepts the glass vial and stares at the shimmering liquid, and then at Erskine, and then at the delicate copper pot.

"Cauldrons don't exactly travel well," Erskine snaps. "Drink."

Steve downs the substance. It tastes at once bitter and floral, but the pain seeps out of his abused muscles right away, as if it were flowing out from his body and into the earth. He looks at the ground, stunned.

"Don't worry," Erskine says, his voice gentle this time. "Your pain is nothing to the earth. She has forgotten it already."

Peggy shakes her head. "It isn't fair. When I started my training, there was no sorcerer making me potions."

"We all have our own struggles, Margaret. Isn't that right, Steve?"

"Yeah," Steve says, dreamy. His aches have all gone and his muscles feel vibrant and alive, as close to strong as they've ever been. If Steve had ever doubted that Erskine could do as he had said, that doubt is gone now. "This is incredible..."

"First time meeting a sorcerer, I take it?" Peggy says. "Enough of that! Time to pack up, page! We need to move." 

Steve gathers all their possessions with a smile on his face. Peggy shows him how to strap their things to the horses, and he follows the instructions, studying each knot. He's getting a chance, and he's going to do this right. He won't make Peggy show him twice.

\--

Late into that afternoon, after seven hours riding, clinging to Peggy's armored back, Steve is no longer smiling. Everything hurts again. 

His relief when they stop for a meal is short-lived. They've barely rested when Peggy has him up and training. 

At night, they make camp. Erskine gives him more of that draught, and he sleeps like the dead, unaware of even the stars. 

In the morning, it starts over again.

\--

The days turn into weeks, and Steve grows stronger. His muscles start aching less. When Peggy strikes, he sometimes manages a parry. He can help Peggy in and out of her armor without looking, or blushing.

The three of them talk, a great deal. Erskine spends much time gathering herbs and tending to his potions — a task that neither Steve nor Peggy are fit to help with — so the two of them talk even more. Peggy tells him about her many adventures, and he tells her about his life at the manor, and his childhood in the Royal City. 

It’s a relationship quite unlike the one Steve had with the last person he studied under — Maestro saw his pupil as another work of art, and Peggy sees just Steve. It’s not long before Steve starts thinking of her as a friend.

—

“And then you did what to the goblins?” Steve says, laughing. “I don’t believe you. There’s just no way!” 

“Believe me or not,” Peggy says, “that is what happened.” 

Steve shakes his head. The sun is setting, and it colors the sky in pinks and in golds. He misses paints. 

“Tell me about your friend,” Peggy says, “the one you’re going to the City to find and protect.”

Steve’s mentioned Bucky before, in a vague and passing sort of way. Steve never talked about him much, at the manor — for a long time, it was too hard, and then it started to feel special, keeping Bucky an almost-secret, too close to the heart to share with anyone at all. 

But Peggy isn’t just anyone. “His name is Bucky,” Steve says, “and he’s the love of my life.” 

Peggy isn’t just anyone, and Steve tells her everything — about all the sweet mornings, about growing up and growing in love, their first kiss, and their bittersweet parting. Talking about Bucky feels better than Steve could have imagined; he keeps going and going, until the stars are bright, and the moon is high in the sky. 

“Thank you,” Peggy whispers, “for sharing that. It means a lot, to know what you’re fighting for.” 

She’s stunning in the moonlight, the way she’s always stunning, and kind, and strong, and brave. If it weren’t for Bucky, Steve might already be in love with her. But that’s a useless thing to imagine, because Bucky is out there, somewhere, sealed to him with all their promises. 

Curled up in his bedroll that night, Steve wonders — not for the first, or hundredth time — whether Bucky has met someone else, in their long years apart. Perhaps he is being foolish, letting a man he hasn’t seen since boyhood serve as his true north. Anything could have happened. And yet, when Steve looks up at the sky, and the wonder of the sparkling stars spread all across its velvet darkness, all he can think is that even though they’re never as bright in the city, he and Bucky still look up at the same stars. 

\--

It's three more weeks before they come to a village. Supplies were growing thin, but not -- Steve suspects by Erskine's doing -- running out. All of them are eager to replenish, and to see faces belonging to somebody outside their little group of travelers. 

Peggy pauses in the last thicket of trees blocking them from being seen by the village's inhabitants, considering something. 

"What is it, Peg?" Steve asks. Peggy is not one to stop. She makes her decisions and her plans on the fly -- they are alike that way, the two of them. It's one of the reasons they have become as close as they have -- Peggy can understand running away from your home by the first light of dawn to fight a hopeless battle. She has been fighting a hopeless battle all her life.

"I have a dress in my pack," she says. "It's better received, most places, than my armor. Mind you, a beautiful dress is its own sort of armor, but in most situations I greatly prefer the kind that stops arrows and swords."

"It's up to you, Peg. We can be Lady Margaret and her travel companions if you want, but I like the truth better," Steve says.

"And what is the truth?" Peggy asks, smiling. 

"We're a sorcerer, a knight, and her page."

Peggy shakes her head and laughs.

"What did I tell you about this one, Margaret," Erskine says. "Pure of heart! You can always trust a tree spirit's judgment."

And so they go into town for the first time, as a sorcerer, a knight, and her page. 

—

If the villagers are displeased by the sight of a woman in armor, most of them are too kind to show it. They’re curious, of course, but Peggy is happy to answer the questions. If anyone held any ill-will or suspicion towards their group, it’s gone the moment she mentions that the three of them are journeying to the Royal City, in hopes of rescuing the prince. 

Right away, it’s Prince James that, and Prince James this. It turns out that a few years back, there was a drought in these parts, and it was a set of reforms put in place by the young prince that helped see this village, and all its neighbors through. The townsfolk are all happy to do anything they can to help. Peggy inquires about buying Steve a horse, but there are none that would be fit for the journey. 

“I’m sorry we can’t do more,” one of the women says, pressing still more goods into Steve’s hands. He smells something incredible. They’re already laden with almost more food and sundries than they can transport. “You do what you can to help that sweet and handsome prince or ours.”

—

“Handsome, huh?” Steve says, when they are on their way out of town. “I didn’t know we had a handsome prince. Did you know? Have either of you seen him?”

“I’ve heard tell,” Peggy says. “I’ve never met him, but all the stories say he’s handsome, and charming. A bit of a flirt, if the rumors are to be believed, but at the end of the day, he only has eyes for his kingdom.”

“I don’t know about that, Margaret,” Erskine says. “I met the young man myself once. They were throwing some ridiculous gala declaring him the official heir to the throne — ridiculous! He’s the king’s only son — who else will be the next ruler? And I brought him a gift. Handsome? Yes. Eyes only for the kingdom? I don’t think so.”

“Whatever did you give him?” Peggy asks. 

“And who does he have eyes for?” Steve chimes in. 

Erskine shakes his head and laughs, fond. “I gave him a vision — a look at any place or person, past present or future.”

Steve says, “What did he look at?”

“How little you think of me, Steven. I did not look. Oh, I was curious, but I did not look. I can tell you this much — whatever the prince saw, it made him very happy. The rest of the day, he walked around with a spring in his step, like he was on clouds. Every courtier and noble in the land sucking up to him, and he couldn’t get the smile off his face if he tried.”

Steve grimaces. Courtiers are insufferable. 

Peggy scoffs. “He was probably just looking forward at his long, successful reign.”

“Margaret, you are wise beyond your years, but trust an old man! Young people — even young princes — only smile like that when they’re in love.” 

\--

The road starts getting bumpier, and a few days after that, the majestic vista of the mountain range comes into view. Steve had circumvented the mountains on his trip away from the City — they were far too difficult to undertake by coach — so the sight is a wholly new one, and beautiful. He sketches as much as he can, but it doesn’t take long for Steve to stop deriving any pleasure from the beauty. As they climb higher, the temperature starts dropping, and the old, familiar ache in his lungs starts coming back, followed by its companion: a bone-rattling cough. 

He wakes up one morning from a cramped, uncomfortable night of sleeping curled up between stones trapped between shivering and on fire. His eyes feel too bright, and everything feels far away. 

Peggy takes one look at him and says, “No training until you’re well.”

Erskine looks through his herbs, and to the barren, rocky earth, and mutters a creative string of curses under his breath. 

“I’m fine,” Steve says to both of them. “Really! This is just like old times for me.”

Traveling through the mountains ill is even worse than traveling through the mountains healthy. Steve grits his jaw, and does not complain, and tries not to feel sorry for himself. It almost works. He remembers being ill at home, when he was young, the way his mother would check his temperature with a soothing touch of her hand, the way Bucky would sit by his side and tell him tales and press a cold compress to his forehead and help him bring sips of cool water to his lips. Bucky had been so kind, and Steve had even had the nerve to complain about it. “I’m not an invalid,” he say, glaring daggers at Bucky, at his mother. What he wouldn’t do for that kind of sweet care now, for the precious presence of either of those sweet people. 

Time is a fluid thing as it passes, some hours it’s all that he can do to cling to Peggy’s back. 

Steve isn’t sure how long it’s been when they come across another village. 

They’re greeted at the outskirts of the settlement by an excited group of playing children, who send swift little runners to inform the grownups of newcomers. 

The adults are as excited as the kids. “We don’t get a lot of people coming up that side of the mountain. Mostly, we see traders from the City,” one woman says. “They bring supplies in exchange for what we weave.” 

Another woman looks at Steve, sharp-eyed. “This boy is ill.” 

At once, Steve finds himself wrapped in some of the fine blankets that are as good as currency around these parts. Erskine rattles off some herbs to the mountaintop healer, and gets to work on a potion at once. 

Within hours, the dull ache in his head is gone, the fever is broken, and Steve’s lungs feel as well as they can in the thin, mountain air. At the insistence of their hosts, he keeps a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he wanders, watching the weavers do their intricate work on the beautiful looms. 

It’s really something, having a sorcerer for a friend. It’s a terrible thought, but Steve is struck by a question: would his mother still be alive, if he had known a sorcerer back then? What would that version of his life have been like?

One of the locals who has been so kind to him shakes him out of that sullen reverie. She presses a cup of steaming drink into his hands. “It’s our specialty. A tea made from a root that doesn’t grow anywhere else. Our looms are one of a kind too. The women of these parts have always been weavers — the animals are just about the only resource that we have.”

Steve takes a sip. The tea tastes like the earth, at once rich and herbal. “This is really nice. Thank you — everyone here’s been so kind.”

She shakes her head. “Your friend told us that you’re on your way to fight for the prince. Thank you. He personally ordered the reinforcement of supply lines up this mountain. It’s because of him that we can exchange our crafts for supplies.” 

Another small community Prince James has gone off the beaten path to aid. Steve wonders what kind of man this prince must be, to care so deeply about the people of this whole, wide land. 

\--

As promised by the villagers, the road down the mountain is in magnificent condition, but Steve still misses flat land. He's sick of walking the horses, and sleeping curled up on the side of the path. 

He must truly look pitiful, because Peggy offers him an evening off training -- the first since Erskine's magic restored his health. She even excuses him from starting the fire. 

Steve takes the evening to pull out his sketchbook and draw by the fading light. He chooses the subject that will be of greatest comfort: Bucky's face, drawn, as always, from unfading memory.

Peggy crouches down by his side and watches the picture take shape. "Who's that, Steve?" she says, sing-song. "Is that your Bucky? Abraham, come look at Steve's Bucky."

Erskine comes over at once. He looks down at the drawing, and something flickers across his face that Steve cannot place. "Our Steven is a fine artist," he says.

Erskine is unusually quiet for the rest of the night, but Steve chalks it up to the complexities of being a sorcerer of boundless experience and power. 

\--

“Again!” Peggy says. 

Steve charges her, teeth gritted, knocks her to the ground. 

“Better,” Peggy says, pushing him off without much effort at all. “Aim even lower, next time. You won’t be small for long, but while you are, you must use gravity to your advantage.”

“I need all the advantage I can get,” says Steve, with a self-deprecating laugh. 

Peggy shakes her sweaty hair out of her eyes. “We all start somewhere. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and practice your swordwork.”

Steve is going through the motions that she taught him when they come — all armed, a group of five men, dressed to match the shadowed shrubs. 

“Time to stop playing knight, little boy,” the leader says. “The three of you must be fools, to travel so unprotected. I feel no guilt when I rob fools. Empty your coin purses and hand over your supplies.”

Steve doesn’t stop to think or breathe before attacking, but Peggy still beats him to the punch. She is a blur of glorious motion — the spark of her blade, flashing in the firelight; her dark hair, blowing around her face like a mantle — Steve’s almost too distracted watching her to help. 

Almost — she’s trained him far too well for him to stand around mouth gaping, it seems. Steve swipes at a man’s legs with his short-sword, knocks the man’s weapon from his hands when he reaches down to block the blow. Steve runs at him, aiming low just like Peggy taught him. Just like that, his opponent is on the ground. 

He hazards a look at Peggy. Where there were once four men fighting her, there now stand only two. 

Steve uses the flat of his blade to knock his man unconscious. He isn’t ready yet, to take a life. 

And then he watches, waiting, and getting in a blow when one of Peggy’s men is unaware. It isn’t very fair, or very knightly, but until he has the strength to fight fair, he must fight anyway he can. 

—

Peggy tests the knots with which he’s bound their attackers, and then looks at him with smug pride. “You did well,” she says. 

Steve laughs. “You would have been fine without me.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But I didn’t have to be. That’s a good thing. When it’s time for the spell, you’ll be ready.”

“Quite a far cry from the Steven we met all those weeks ago, no?” Erskine says. “We’ll have a fine warrior on our hands yet.” 

Steve feels a hot flush in his cheeks at their pride, but the fact of the matter is — he’s proud of himself too. Already, he’s become more than he could have hoped for. 

“Thanks for your help, by the way, Abraham,” says Peggy. “Don’t think I didn’t see you sitting there and watching, as if it was the joust.”

“Did you need me?” says Erskine. “No, they’re all unconscious. You didn’t need me — why tire out an old man? Steve, find some sticks. Not like for the fire, thicker.”

Erskine’s random instructions stopped being strange to Steve miles and miles ago. He finds what Erskine wants. His questions are answered when the sticks become torches, which shine a bit too bright, and don’t burn any lower, as they make their way further down the path, away from their attackers.

\--

 

It’s another few days before they are out of the mountains, at long last. Steve hates the mountains. To think the always thought them so beautiful, from far away. 

Well, once this journey is done, he'll stick to enjoying their distant beauty. Mountains. He wouldn't wish mountains on his most-hated foe. 

The foothills, however, are stunning. Plants flourish in the fertile, oft-dampened earth, and there are trees and flowers everywhere. Everything is green and bright with life. The sun rises up from behind the hills and paints the vista shades of pink-purple-gold each morning, and it's the happiest Steve's been to watch the sunrise since the days when he and Bucky spent them shoulder-to-shoulder.

The horses still need rest, but not quite so much, and they spend stretches of the journey riding. 

"You've warmed to Aveline, I see," Peggy says, one afternoon when they are resting, and Steve is feeding the horse an apple from his pack.

"Shh, don't tell her," Steve says. Aveline nuzzles his hand.

Peggy laughs. "Oh, trust me, she already knows. There should be more villages soon. We'll be able to get you a horse of your own. Are you ready?

"The idea has grown on me," Steve says. 

After the spell, he and Peggy and Erskine might have to part ways. Her primary objective will be to get the sorcerer somewhere he'll be able to do some good and work to undo the enchantments holding the city captive. Steve will be taking a more direct path, going to wherever intelligence suggests the prince might be held.

The coming separation weighs on Steve's heart -- more loved ones that he's going to be parted from -- but under Peggy's tutelage, his skill grows each day now. When it comes, Steve is going to be ready.

—

The next spark of civilization they come upon is a full-fledged town, vibrant and populous, with clean, wide streets. 

“Excellent,” Peggy says. “We’ll certainly be able to find you a horse here. Steve, go tether and water the horses while I speak to the stablemaster.” 

Steve spends time with the animals, while Peggy wins the stablemaster over. Steve has no doubt that she’ll soon know exactly which horses can be parted from their current masters, and which are fit to make the journey to the Royal City. Once Peggy has a goal in mind, she rarely fails. 

Steve looks up from stroking Aveline’s mane to see the stablemaster light up at something Peggy says. Steve would bet anything she’s just mentioned going to rescue the prince. He wonders what the wondrous Prince James has done for the people of this town. 

“Excellent news!” Peggy tells him. “We’ve got some candidates. I’m going to go talk to some owners. Meanwhile, you go and see if there’s a smithy. I’ve got a feeling we might be able to get you outfitted here.” 

—

As it turns out, the smithy is harder to miss than it is to find. It’s the largest building in the town — unusual, to say the least. 

“That’s just Sir Howard’s place,” a young boy, lagging behind a group of children of various ages, tells Steve. His gawking must be obvious, if even children are catching him at it. “You can go in and see. He doesn’t even notice, when he’s working. He came over from the City when Prince James sent a teacher to help start our school.”

Of course, the prince started a school here. 

“The teacher left after she taught our teachers, and got the school started. But Sir Howard stayed. He says we’ve got special rocks. “ The boy runs off after his friends, and leaves Steve staring at the smithy. 

Luckily, he’s not alone for long. Peggy materializes at his side, a pleased look on her face. She looks up at the smithy, and that pleased look fades. “Oh no,” she says. “There’s only one man who could have built this.”

—

“Howard,” Peggy says, stepping into the smithy. 

Contrary to the young boy’s assurances, he looks up right away. “Lady Margaret! Whatever brings you to my little corner of the earth.” 

“I’d hardly call it little,” she says. 

He smirks. “I’ve heard that line before.”

“The only reason I’m not punching you in the face is that I need your craft,” says Peggy. Steve’s concerned about how tightly she’s clutching her coin purse. If he were Howard, he would be afraid. 

Howard just keeps smiling. “Anything for the most beautiful knight in all the land. A new helm? A stronger sword?”

“I have all I need,” Peggy says, “but Steven here needs to be outfitted from head to boot.”

“Are you sure?” says Howard. “Whatever you have, I can do better.” 

“Positive.”

“Very well! Come here, Steven. We’ve got a lot of work to do, and if I know anything about Margaret here, we have no time to do it at all…”

\--

They stick around the town for a few days. Steve passes the time mingling with the townsfolk, and training in a pretty clearing he finds in a little patch of woods. By halfway through the second day, he’s sure he’s met everyone. It’s a surprise, then, to see an unfamiliar face as he is going through his drills. 

She’s a woman, older, dark, greying hair piled atop her head in a knot, and she is picking inedible berries from a bush. The moment Steve realizes what she’s doing, the nostalgia washes over him in a bittersweet wave. Those berries will make a deep, inky blue. Steve sheathes his sword. He never thought he’d miss grinding pigment for paint, but when he comes up to her, all there is to say is, “Can I help?” 

She lives on the outskirts of town, in a secluded little house. Steve passes a happy afternoon mixing paints, and when he’s done she tells him, “If you’d like to use any of this, you’re welcome to it. You helped make it, after all.”

Steve winds up coming back the next day, when his shield is done. It’s strong and light, but the unadorned metal is too plain. He thinks about the way he’d like the shield to look, and remembers the stone tucked into his pocket. He paints it with concentric circles, and a single star. 

\--

When their little party sets back out, Steve has armor, a fine longsword on his hip, and his shield strapped on his back. Perhaps best of all, he rides his very own horse — a lovely mare called Liberty. 

—

Steve wakes up one night, and finds that Erskine is up and sitting awake by the fire. "Has hell frozen over, to find you up when you could be resting?" Steve asks, because it's true. And because he's learned by now that Peggy sleeps like a log, so long as there's no danger, and thus feels no guilt talking while she is dead to the world.

"I can feel the darkness," Erskine says, no mirth in his voice. "Whatever has the city, it spreading. It means to take the whole realm."

Steve shifts around, and tries to feel the air around him, smell it, sense anything at all. "What does dark magic feel like?"

"Like static in the air before a storm," Erskine says. "You and Peggy are just alike. Not one bit of magic in either of you. It’s good, the spell it...it doesn’t work if you have magic. We'll have to do it soon. We get too close, and the sorcerer doing this will sense my magic."

He rattles off a list of ingredients they'll have to look for -- Steve recognizes one or two from his days making pigment, but isn't sure he'll be of too much use.

"Of course you'll be of use!" Erskine says. "You're the most important ingredient. Go back to sleep, Steve. You'll need your strength to train tomorrow."

Steve doesn’t think to ask how Erskine knows the spell won’t work on someone magical — not until the morning after — and even then, it’s hardly a thought, before training and traveling takes him away.

—

“I have found it,” Erskine says, returning from the forest on a cloudy afternoon. 

The clouds are more common now. When first they started to appear, they were pure and silver-white, floating light across the sky. Now, they're touched with heavy grey, low-hanging promises of a rain that never seems to come.

Erskine shows Steve an unassuming, golden-speckled mushroom. “The last ingredient for the potion. We do the spell tonight.”

“Tonight,” Steve says. 

He is about to change, to be changed to his very core.

Peggy wanders over, gives his hand a squeeze. “Tonight. You're ready Steve. You're strong.”

The day is given to preparation. Steve has grown to resent each day not spent traveling — after all, their hero prince is waiting to be saved — but he supposes that he'll be more use to the rescue effort after. If there is an after, that is.

The sun is low and golden in the sky when Erskine stands over his copper pot, and says, “It's ready.”

Steve laughs, nervous. “It's ready. I'm ready. What are we waiting for?”

“There's one more thing that you should know, before we start,” Erskine says. “Both of you.”

“That you should have used a real cauldron?” Steve says. Joking, joking might cover his nerves.

“I know who has the City,” Erskine says, and then Steve doesn't feel like joking at all.

“Abraham!” Peggy says. “Why would you keep this from me — from both of us? If we have information about the one controlling the city, I might need to adjust the plan.”

“Because someone has taken a version of this potion before, and it was him.”

—

“He can't take it!” Peggy says. “If the only other person who's had it went power-mad and evil, he can't take it.”

“Margaret,” Erskine says. He pours the potion, now cooled, into a vial. The last sliver of sunlight is disappearing beneath the horizon. The sky is red. “They are nothing alike. Johann was my apprentice, another sorcerer. He drank the potion without my knowledge or my spell.”

“I don't know, Peg,” Steve says. “Evil might be a good look on me.”

“The potion amplifies everything a person is,” Erskine explains. “The bad, the good, the magical. Our Steve is good — really, truly good.”

Peggy frowns, but does not argue further. Steve is the one feeling doubt now. He's always been too rash, too stubborn — he knows himself at least that well. What sort of headstrong monster will he turn into?

Peggy looks at his face, and her own face softens. “He's right, Steve. This can't ruin you.”

“But if it does,” says Steve, “you'll take care of it, right? You'll put me down.”

“Don't talk that way,” she says.

“Just promise me. And promise you'll find Bucky, and tell him that I love him.”

“I promise,” Peggy says. She takes his hand, and squeezes. 

Erskine shakes his head. “That's enough dramatics, children. Are you ready Steve?”

“I'm ready.”

—

The potion shines like a golden torch in the fading light. Steve uncorks it, holds it for a moment, and drinks it down in one long swig.

At first, there is nothing. And then Erskine speaks, old words in a new arrangement. The feeling starts deep in Steve's chest — a sort of restless stirring, that shifts into a warmth, and then a pain, and then spreads outward. If feels like he is bursting out of his skin. He feels like the golden light of that potion is tearing right through him, emanating out of his pores, so bright he cannot see anything but light at all. He hears, but doesn't feel himself scream.

And just like that, it's over.

Awareness comes back to him one part of his body at a time. Steve feels his hands, curls and uncurls his fingers. He feels cold earth beneath his back — how about that, he's on the ground. Somebody is touching his cheek — Steve knows the callouses of Peggy’s cool palm. There's something underneath his head. Steve opens his eyes. He tries to make his mouth form words — it takes a moment. “Did it work?” 

“Yes,” Peggy says, “I’d rather say it did.”

—

“How do you feel?” Erskine says.

There is no describing it, the strength he feels in every muscle, every fiber of his being. “Big,” Steve says. “Not evil.”

Erskine chuckles. Peggy smiles. What comes next happens all at once.

A cold wind blows, bitter and biting. Heavy, red-tinged clouds block out the moon. The foreboding sense of present evil is suffocating. The earth shakes, and a red furrow opens in the dirt, a gaping wound. What seeps out isn't blood, but a blade. Steve lunges but is thrown aside by something unseen. 

The sword thrusts through Erskine’s chest, and as fast as it all started, everything is done. The red clouds are gone. The moon is out. The wind is settled and the rift in the ground is gone.

All that remains is the sword, buried to its hilt, and the shocked, pained look on Erskine’s face.

“Steve,” he says, his voice raw with pain. “The prince, I have to tell you —” 

But whatever he was going to say is gone, and so is he. Erskine collapses. He's dead before he hits the ground.

—

Neither Steve nor Peggy speaks until the morning. When the sky turns pink with the rising sun, Peggy squares her jaw and says, “We have to bury him.”

Steve nods. They can't just leave him, and they have to go. Now that he's seen what they're up against, he's more determined to fight it even than before.

He finds a stick for himself, and one for Peggy, too. They dig, and it is easy. He outpaces Peggy by a mile. The grave is done before full sun-up. 

“My armor,” Steve says, feeling the scale-mail across his new, broad chest. “It changed with me.”

Peggy swallows. “Abraham thought of everything.” 

Steve carries Erskine's body to his grave. Peggy pulls the sword from his chest. Together, they lay him to rest. 

“We should say something,” Steve says. 

“What can we say?” says Peggy. “We’ll get him, Abraham. We will. This won't go unpunished.”

“Thank you,” says Steve. “For everything.”

They cover his body with earth. The cursed sword, they leave as a marker. It's the best they can do.

—

“If we're going to have a chance at winning this fight, we need a sorcerer.” Peggy goes through Erskine’s pack, methodical. “That means splitting up.”

“We knew we'd have to, sooner or later.” Steve accepts every item she offers him, and puts it away.

“But not like bloody this. I know where to find one, but it's a long ride. I'll have to go after him, while you head to the city alone.” Peggy straps the rest of Erskine’s supplies to his horse, Maple, and then tethers Maple to Aveline. 

“No, not like this,” Steve says. “But I'm strong now. I'll be okay. And as for you, Peg, there was never any question.”

“Oh Steve,” she says, “don't you dare die on me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, my lady.”

They embrace, prolonged and tight. “You know where to go, right?” Peggy says.

Steve laughs. “Yeah, Peg. I know where to go. Good luck.”

“Won't need it. Keep it all for yourself,” she says, and then she and the two horses are off.

Steve is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> But me about posting the second half of this [at my Tumblr](http://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/).


End file.
